


the dance molecular

by fanfoolishness (LoonyLupin), LoonyLupin



Series: Level 10: Agents of Shield Fic [9]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 02:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14728647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/fanfoolishness, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/pseuds/LoonyLupin
Summary: A morning in Scotland, one day.  Jemma and Fitz, the morning sunlight, memory and hope. Spoilers for 5x22, "The End."





	the dance molecular

Morning sunlight, brilliant and glorious, streams through the bedroom window.  Jemma rolls over, awash in sheets and blankets.  She yawns.  Fitz has left the bedding in a massive tangle.   **  
**

She slips out of bed, savoring the slight chill of the wooden floor against her bare feet.  Scotland is never far from a hint of cold, even in the summer.  

She bends down, touches her toes, stretches.  Her back has been bothering her lately.   _Getting old_ , she muses with a grateful smile, and she straightens back up, breathing deeply.  Getting old had seemed such an improbability, once upon a time.

She rummages in the laundry for her robe.  She’d left it rumpled in the bin after last night.  She’ll never tire of him, she thinks; the way he holds her, kisses her, moves within her.  She cinches the robe closed.  Perhaps he’ll be up for another go after a night’s sleep.

She finds him in the laboratory in yesterday’s clothes, his glasses slipping down to the end of his nose as he hunches over his desk.  The morning sun casts warm shadows in the lab, bright enough that he hasn’t even turned on the overhead lights.

“You do realize you’ll never see anything that way, don’t you?”

Fitz grins, pushing the glasses back up with a gloved finger.  “Honestly, you try wearing bifocals.  They’re maddening.”  He leans back in his chair, and she bends to meet him, the good morning kiss sweet and familiar.

“You’re up early,” she comments, pulling up a chair beside him.  She gazes at his work, brilliant, elegant, terribly clever.  “After breakfast I’ll get changed and join you.  What do you think this morning?  Earl Grey?  I always find that best for stimulating the mind.”  She runs over his adjustments in her head; flawless, as far as she can see.  “It’s coming along nicely, isn’t it?”

He shrugs, but she can tell he’s secretly pleased by the way the corners of his eyes crinkle.  The lines etched there are deeper than they used to be.  They highlight his grins more than ever.  

“You know our time in the lab together is one of my favorite things.  Though in this case, I’ve nearly got it,” he says, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.  

But there’s something else there, too, beneath the pride.  A moment’s hesitation.  “I’ve been working for a few hours already.  I had trouble sleeping last night.  Dreams again.”

She slips her arm around his shoulders, lets the weight settle against him, grounding him.  A reminder that  _this_  is what is real, that  _this_  is what is here.  It is habit to her, now.  “I wondered.  The blankets looked thoroughly destroyed.”  She kisses his cheek, her lips brushing against greying stubble.  “How do you feel?”

“Better now.  The meds do help.  Still, it’s best keeping you posted.”  He smiles, the expression soft at first, then broadening.  “It’s going to be a good day, I think,” he says, laying down his tools and sliding off his gloves.  

“You know you can always tell me, Fitz.  All of it, always.”  And she means it, with a fierceness cutting through her words, a knife’s edge to wield against the darkness.  She has used it before.  She is unafraid to use it again.

“I know, Jemma.”  His fingertips are soft against her cheek, a gentle caress, and she leans into his touch.  “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” she asks, though she knows perfectly well what he means.

“After everything, after what I’ve done… did you ever think it would be easier to let the universe win?”  He studies his hands, intent on their fine tremor.  Some days they are steadier than others.

“Of course it would have been  _easier,_ ” says Jemma.  For a moment she watches Fitz’s hands, his fingers moving faintly to a mysterious soundless melody, and she remembers his stricken face beneath the glass of a hyperbaric chamber.  Other memories crowd in; the Doctor’s cruel detachment, Daisy crying on a stark gurney, Fitz’s blue eyes forever half-opened, with dust in his hair and blood in his mouth.  

She pulls him closer into an embrace, and she recalls his arms around her in the blue dark of Maveth, her proposal to him in a shattered world, the first wedding, the one with Coulson.  She remembers the ice thawing from his face beneath Jupiter’s shadow; she remembers the second wedding, the children, the joy through the years.

“But love isn’t easy, Fitz,” she murmurs.  “It’s bloody difficult, facing the world when all seems lost.  And it’s frightening, and it’s exhilarating, and it’s absolutely  _worth it_.  To be with you?  I would do it all again, no matter what the universe has to say about it.”

Fitz gazes at her, and she knows, she  _knows_ , that he will never stop looking at her like this.  With wonder.  With hope.  Love looks so good on him, the way it settles into the lines of his face, the way it softens those old fears she still catches, now and again, behind his eyes.  

The way it  _shines_.

She shivers, though she isn’t cold.  It’s amazing, she thinks, this ballet of oxytocin and vasopressin, a dance molecular that hums between them, unbound by time, by space, by death. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you,” she says, and her eyes sting with the sudden burn of tears.

He smiles tenderly at her, brushing her hair behind her ear.  It probably looks a fright, she supposes, though she’s certain he doesn’t mind.  

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

“Constantly,” says Jemma, matching his smile with one of her own.  The tears have faded.  “It’s getting rather embarrassing.”

“I can always stop,” says Fitz seriously.  “If you’d rather.”

“Don’t you dare.”

His arms around her are safe and solid.  She sighs, burying her face in his shoulder, holding him close.  Love might not be easy, or perfect.

But it’s a dance she would choose with no other, and she settles into her husband’s arms, the morning sun warm on their faces.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not think Jemma and Fitz's relationship will ever forget the scars it has borne. Those memories carry weight, especially for Fitz. Traumatic brain injuries can last a lifetime, and I wanted to depict here a realistic look at what life might look like decades from now for FitzSimmons. So Fitz's motor skills still falter, now and then; dreams and dark memories still linger, but they no longer carry absolute power. Fitz is honest with Jemma about his symptoms -- instead of hiding them -- and he's helped with medications and routine. He's scarred, but healthy. And Jemma doesn't paper over those things; she accepts them, gives them the weight they deserve, and she loves him, scars and all. 
> 
> And dammit, they deserve all the summer mornings in Scotland.


End file.
